


Love's Light Wings

by PoppycockIsMyProvince



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppycockIsMyProvince/pseuds/PoppycockIsMyProvince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Where all these pairings got married and the changes that followed.<br/>Prompt fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Light Wings

The heavy, Targaryen black and crimson cloak sweeps the floor behind her, disrupting the red, red rose petals and glittering diamonds that covered the floor of the sept. Cersei's thoughts are consumed with the cool weight of the crown upon her brow and the fervent cries of " _Princess"_ within, and beyond, the sept.

 _Queen._ She thinks, glowing.

~

The hands drifting along her back are clammy and large; each one easily spanning the space at the small of her back, before they move to invade her hair, plucking at the brittle roses petals that had been painstakingly woven into her braids that morning.

Lyanna can't bring herself to mourn the ruination of her handmaidens' work- the intricate braids and perfumed waves are as Southron and unwanted as the hands that fisted them, and the too sweet wine that was diffusing into her mouth.

The blue of the roses was died black under the might of Robert's stained boots, as she was swept back onto the mound of  _black_ and _gold_ furs that covered the great bed.

Below the sounds of merriment and feasting was joined by the howling of the wind and the crashing of ocean waves. 

~

The wind here is quick and harsh, stealing the jewelled pins from her flame kissed hair and teasingly unravelling the delicate curls. 

_The hand in hers is warm enough to fight off the frostiest wind; the smoke-like eyes above are awash with mischief and bright  with promise._

Despite the cold wind and the summer snow, Cat feels fire coursing through her body, and finds herself forgetting the foreignness of the weirwood before her and the unease of the Rivermen behind her; the blue and red congregations' mutterings of unsanctified and ungodly matrimony are drowned out by the howls of the north and waves of anticipation crashing through her body. 

_The wild wolf's cloak is about her shoulders, his lips are caressing hers, their tongues colliding and twisting and teasing in a well practised dance._

What are the bells of a sept to the howls of the winter winds? 

~

The skin of her face is pale to the point of translucency, the intricate patchwork of veins visible through the ivory case of fragile, newborn flesh.

Her chest rises and falls gently; her birdlike wrists pulse with love's light wings.

Lysa marvels at the beauty of her babe.

She's tiny and golden and beautiful and above all else,  _alive._

Through the gap of the partially open doorway Tyrion watches as his good-sister strokes the downy curls atop Minisa's head, and observes the adoration of her gaze, in quiet fascination. 


End file.
